


Proximity

by bible



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Codependency, Dacryphilia, Dreams, Episode: s03e07 Digestivo, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 18:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12636267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bible/pseuds/bible
Summary: If Will had said something else, perhaps he wouldn't be so cold. Fortunately, he has his very vivid imagination to fill in the space of lost time with Hannibal.





	Proximity

                Will hasn’t left the house in a few days now. The sky’s a punishing black at night that eschews him out from its iciness, and in the day time it’s too depressingly open and gray to leave. The clouds mottle overhead, spilling snow relentlessly and containing him within his home. Inside, he stays in bed. Without his dogs, the silence and loneliness are omnipresent, and with his face bruised and ripped, taking the battering that a vicious identity elicits, he finds it absolute that he stays beneath the sheets.

                The blankets have stopped smelling of dog and of his old life, have stopped smelling of nightmare perspiration that once choked the air like some fearful pheromones. Now they smell of the powerful iron of his blood, metallic and heady and wine-like. He’s been drenched in it for the past weeks, this life spilled from others, and from himself. Every drop is humanity disgorged from the man to the earth. He feels less human because of it, even as it scabs over.

                Will buries his face in the side of the pillow, eyes half-shut. He’s playing with his vision, a childish game of introspection, a study of his own body and its capabilities. To make sure he still has control. He’s not sure he does, when he sees the swoop of his inky eyelashes as clear and pure in his peripheral when he half-closes his eyes. The bed sheets, crumpled and grey and lifeless but dry, blur under his focus of this eyelash, so intense and beautiful, like a needle.

                Will’s hit with a sudden strange self-love for this knife-sharp eyelash that he plucks out of his vision and stares at in the palm of his bruised hand. And in this self-love for this aspect of his face, so is this self-love of his identity.

                So many people tried to take that from him. It’s something he’d normally bring up in therapy, but the psychiatrist is in jail. He clenches his hand around the eyelash, tentative with the thought that Hannibal has indicted himself to Jack. He doesn’t want to think of the implications of this forced proximity right now, lest he vomit _again_. ( _Again_ : what a nasty word when caked in stomach bile.)

                Identity and his face. He hardly feels it belongs to him. It’s strange how many people appreciate it more than him.

                Especially Dr. Lecter.

                He drops his eyelash into the blankets and turns away to face the window, where he’s just barely cracked the blinds. There’s a crack in it from a shoddy repair following a hailstorm—Randall Tier’s effect on his window has rendered it completely replaced—and the weak moonlight that peaks with great effort through the smoldering clouds casts a line of the crack on Will’s face in shadow. It halves his face in two. One for him, one for Hannibal.

                He wonders how things would have been at this moment, just days after he told Hannibal to stay away, after he told him he’d never seek him out again. He wonders how things would be if he’d let Hannibal in with him. After carrying his dead weight miles on worn arms stretched by rope, Will can’t help but let, in spite of everything, a twinge of empathy dig into some nasty, unrelenting lobe in his mind that’s responsible for this downpour of sympathy. It’s like he’s in all black, dressed in funeral wear, mourning constantly the small inconveniences and the all-consuming tragedies of the world. Hannibal had cradled his body for so long. He wondered if he’d kissed his wounded face at all and feels, with an immediate pang of regret, very stupid for the thought.

                No; Will is glad that he did not invite him to stay.

                It appears he never had to.

                And yet, he lays there, smelling his blood and his skin and thinking about his own face never having left his skull, all thanks to Hannibal, with his broad, sneaky, cat face, his cool smugness and pallid white skin peppered with red stitches of cruelty, just like his own. He bites his pillow and closes his eyes and thinks what could have happened if he had answered Hannibal differently.

                _“We are in zero-sum game?” Hannibal had asked, sitting across the bed in a position so reminiscent of their old therapy sessions._ But he realizes now that his position, when they are face-to-face, when he is upright and relaxed, his legs crossed, casts him as an owner.

                Will’s very sick at the thought. Master and servant.

                What would he have said instead of _“Goodbye, Hannibal”?_

_Perhaps, he would have reached across the bed and put a hand on his. He wouldn’t say anything. He’d feel the sooty and bruised bone of his wrist that peered from his dark sleeve, drenched with Will’s dried blood, and pull him up from the chair to sit on the bed beside him. In some feverish and dreamlike haze, Hannibal would cup the swollen left side of his cheek. He knows he’d put just enough pressure on it to elicit a wince, a few teary blinks, but no noise. Then Will would climb his hands up his arms, rest them on his sore, aching shoulders, and push the jacket off his shoulders only, so they draped about his forearms. Then he’d rub his shoulders and work the muscle, until Hannibal relaxed and became malleable under his hands, like clay._

                He knows this last part is unrealistic.

_Hannibal would watch him with those icepick cold eyes, his rosepetal lips quirked up at the corner with curiousity. Will would scoot over in the bed, his body cold and achy, still chill from the snowfall, but he’d make room for Hannibal, who would lay down, very elegantly, on top of the blankets. He’d cross his feet at the ankle, shoes on and all, and put his hands on his stomach, fingers laced. And Will would grab his hand and hold it for a long time until their internal warmth—a facet they both shared—melted the frost lining his bones. And his fingers would meld into his hand._

                This particular thought saddens Will. It’s an intimate, very gentle, childish thing to desire. He supposes he’s been indoors so long, so starved of touch, that something small and adolescent is growing inside him. Some intrinsic need for affection, as though he’s regressing. At least in his romantic tastes. But then, he doubts Hannibal’s helped him cultivate any _mature_ romantic affections. Hannibal disintegrates their love into something primordial and hideous and symbiotic. Dependent. A sum-zero game.

                How shall he mature this young adult novel of a dream?

                Will’s eyes open and he looks at the clock that casts his face in a greenish, sickened glow. It’s early in the morning and he closes his eyes again, head throbbing with intense pain where the circular saw was brought against his head. For some reason, the Hannibal in his dreams isn’t responsible for this. He bats away this minor irritation so he can dream about the proponent of it.

_Will would crawl down the bed, the immense pain that throbbed throughout his head forgotten for the sake of the fantasy, and he’d pull off Hannibal’s shoes, set them carefully on the floor. (These small details of couth matter greatly to Hannibal. And while he’s not inclined to please him, it is important to Will to be realistic. He finds that it usually makes jerking himself off feel much better.) He’d press his cheek to his ankle and rub the arch of his foot, eyes fluttering shut. He’d kiss the back of it, and then make his way back up the bed to rest beside him. His anger drained and his bed very warm with the system of heat they’d create laying there, he’d turn on his side and embrace Hannibal. And, because it’d be silly not to, he’d begin to cry. Very quiet crying, a muffled, small-animal sound with his swollen cheek pressed against Hannibal’s shoulder._

_Hannibal wouldn’t be able to_ listen _to him crying. He’d either smell or feel them first; smell the salty trickle down his face, fresh and puritan, baby smells, or he’d feel the intermittent shuddering of his chest against his bicep. But he’d take his chin in his hand, which would be searing warm, and he’d lean forward and drag the tip of his hot tongue over the crystalline tear that crawled down his bruised cheek. Like the Virgin, he’d turn his eyes up with knitted brows, and Hannibal would not permit any drop of tears to trickle down his jaw._

_It’s always consumption between them._

_Hannibal, after having this taste, would crawl over Will, until they were parallel with Will flat on his back, his eyes exhausted and fluttering shut. Outside, the snow would pick up,_ as it was currently doing, _and Hannibal would keep him warm. Boxing him in with his shoulders, he’d dip down and nurse every tear that came down his cheeks, his chest shuddering and hiccupping as Hannibal’s hot mouth and tongue would lick up and kiss and replace every tear with a silver trail of scentless saliva. His jagged teeth would sometimes catch over the scabs or the tears._

                Will puts a hand in his boxers, eyes closed and the wind blowing hollowly outside, and he tries very hard to imagine that he’s not so alone.

 _Hannibal would be hard now, and he’d feel it against his thigh as he took what Will gave in tears. Eventually they’d trickle off and Hannibal would need other nourishment that Will could provide. Hannibal, the leech, would crawl beneath the blankets and tug the boxers off the sharp curves of Will’s hips,_ as he was doing to himself now _._

 _He’d kiss his stomach—_ no. No, he wouldn’t. Will might like him to. But he wouldn’t.

_He’d simply grab his cock as it wept clear, shaky tears of pre-cum from its half hard state, and he’d dip his finger in it. He’d grab his thigh with one hand and, still dressed and wounded, hair flopped over his forehead, he’d bring his lips to the head of his cock and wrap his very dangerous and red mouth around the tip of his cock._

_And, dreamily, Will is not aware that he is a cannibal in this instance and he does not think of Mason’s crude comment regarding the phallic consumption of those “German fellows” on the Cannibal Café forum._

                Will’s hand stops on his cock. He’s been stroking it slowly at the thought of Hannibal looking up from his handsome brow at him, the thought of his big, powerful hands confining him to the bed and his mouth, stilling him from shaking or thrusting upwards. But now he’s sickened again. Looks down at his own hand, knuckles multicolored even in the dark, gripping the half-hard flesh of his cock.

                “Not enough,” he mumbles to himself, voice monotonous and weak. He looks at the chair that Hannibal had taken his seat in. Will had yet to push it away. He wishes his physical proximity was back. He wishes, with sickening desperation, that Hannibal was looming over him, watching with a medicinal eye and a hard-on, as he jerked off to him. This depraved sexual misgiving, he knows it’d please Hannibal. It’d stroke his never-ending ego. After all that’s happened, it’s very demeaning to Will that he’s willing to give this to him again and again.

                He looks down at his cock and closes his eyes. His fingers lock around it and he strokes, milking tears of milky pre-cum out over his fingers, his cock heavy and warm in his hand, and _in Hannibal’s mouth, it might taste sweet._

                _“What do I taste like?”_

_Hannibal pulls off from the head of his cock he was sucking at with the pleasant and soft mouthful of a man with a kind and mindful appetite. “Honey,” he purrs, and Will, in this self-indulgence, imagines his wounds not dried blood, but dried amber. He tastes like nectar. And he provides for Hannibal, who takes him into his mouth fuller, gagging wetly._

_Sloppy eating; ambrosia._

_Will feels good now, choked in faux-heat, enveloped and pinned and owned. He is not listless in where he is going to be. Hannibal has him, and Hannibal will lead him, with his mouth and his hands._

_Sex is about power._

_He will throw his legs around his back, heels pushing the fabric of his nice coat up, toes curling, his hips pushed down, unable to move or fuck upwards. Even when he is the one with his cock in Hannibal’s mouth, he’s not in control. He’s manipulated into the space of Hannibal’s whims. It’s easier this way; it’s easier being guided by someone who’s just like you. Who knows what everything holds. It eases his anxieties._

                The last of the moonlight slips away in cold blue slivers from around Will’s neck, which bobs and catches in its hollow, a cold pool of sweat.

_His balls flex then, Hannibal chuckling warmly around him, a smile of pure pleasure crawling around his cock._

_Hannibal will pop off and then grab his balls, playing with them, making Will’s foot flex instinctively over his back, his mouth open in a gasp. Hannibal’s mouth will be shiny wet as if cast with newly-melted wax, and then he’ll lean in and press those in a seal over his sac. Will will press his palms to his eyes, mouth open in a gasp._

_“Will,” Hannibal will say, grabbing his cock and jerking him off with the deft and strong grip of someone who knows every part of him, “Come on my face.”_

_And_ , as if Hannibal’s hand is the one really on him _, he is squeezed at the head and cums over the sharp, powerful cheekbone of his therapist and best friend’s face. A humiliating image, certainly, but Hannibal owns it, looking smug and pleased like a feline, like he does after an arterial spray paints his face. His tongue comes out and he licks the semen off his chin, eyes smug and playful and all-knowing. He could just purr his satisfaction._

                His hips stutter and Will realizes he has been physically restraining himself in tandem with the dream he’s been having. He watches the cum splatter the sheets rather than Hannibal’s face.

                He looks to the chair, chest heaving with exhaustion.

                Proximity is attainable now. He rolls over, away from the stain on the mattress, looking out the window where the clouds have completely blocked out the moon. It is dark and he finds the cold is out of his bones and the ache out of his head, his body spent and he feels the oncoming presence of Hannibal in custody, in his future, not with anxiety, but with anticipation.

**Author's Note:**

> I've been indoors for four days now. I'm projecting a bit.
> 
> I'm sorry if this continuity seems a little off. It happens in the time between Hannibal surrendering to Crawford and Will returning to the FBI. Does it really matter? Just a little masturbation fic.
> 
> Thanks for reading.
> 
> Support me/make a request: ko-fi.com/bibles


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